On the Process of Decay
by Zaelynn
Summary: "He doesn't remember falling. Had he remembered, maybe he'd have understood sooner." A look into Sam's lost years in prison. Warning for suicidal thoughts and some language.
1. Forfeiture

**Chapter 1** **–** Forfeiture

He doesn't remember falling.

Absently, Sam munches on his tasteless breakfast– served in the cells to be eaten on the floor or the bunks. Each day begins with the rattling of metal sticks against the bars, quickly followed by the racket of spoons hitting plates and people barking at each other. It's early enough to see the sunrise, if they could leave the cells before scheduled hour to actually enjoy it, that is. It took Sam finding himself alone here to realize how absurd it was that the guards insisted on waking them up so early to face such empty days. Through the window bars, Sam watches what he can of the faded yellow merging with pale blue.

He remembers Nathan's grip on his hand, the mix of horror and confusion in his little brother's wide, wide eyes, and how it took the coppery taste in his mouth to register that he'd been shot. How the pain kicked in after that, radiating from his side to his entire self like fire and stealing his breath, that much he can recall– but not the fall.

Had he remembered, maybe he'd have understood sooner.

Instead, Sam woke up in what looked like an improvised, overcrowded hospital room, vision foggy and breath hitching from the burning in his abdomen, but very much _alive_ – which was enough to convince him that Nathan had gotten them out of there, somehow.

Then the feeling of cold metal around his left wrist made itself known.

 _It's okay,_ he told himself, staring at the low, cracked celling. _Nathan will come back. Just gotta hang tight and wait for the cavalry._

(And if panic took the better of him for a few chilling seconds as he fumbled uselessly at the handcuff with his free hand, heart racing and pain forgotten, he blames it on the exhaustion.)

Sam sets his bowl on the ground and takes a breath deeper than necessery, ignoring the pain to test the bandages straddling his waist. And forces himself to smile anyway, because Nathan swooping by and saving his ass? Snarky little punk will never let him live it down.

The smile doesn't quite hold, but it's okay. Not much longer now.

The celldoors open. Sam stiffles a hiss as he stands up. Sounds of doors slaming and feet stomping fill the corridor as they head down to the yard, cons exchanging yells to complete the racket. Already, a hard shove sends Sam to the wall, and he looks up just in time to exchange a baleful glare with that guy from Gustavo's gang.

Sam has gotten back from the hospital a few days ago, and Gustavo has been looking for a fight ever since. He's ignoring him pretty well thus far, along with the others inmates' shoves and mock applauds at the failed escape a week or so earlier. The guards are just waiting for a reason to piss on his parade, and are finding plenty on their own already. No way Sam is giving them what they want. He sucks it up instead, and concentrates on his recovery.

And waits. Loses count of the metal-bar-striped sunrises.

It takes several weeks of emprisonment for him to miss the soft sounds. Steel, stone, the occasional shouts; that's about it in here. Not much to hear, not much to touch, taste or see– he's beginning to feel deprived in a way he didn't know could be possible, and when something does reach his senses, it's characteristically harsh.

But even that is being dulled in its own repetitiveness. Same shitty food, same ringing sounds as the cells close for the night, same guards in their tough guy uniform, same concrete walls caging the same inmates in their identical outfits, same harsh voices... Every day echoes the last as each assault on his senses is getting less and less noticable.

What's taking Nathan so long, anyway?

Rafe is going to beat them to the treasure at that rate (Sam isn't exactly trusting him to wait until he's free to make his move) and there's just no way that's happening. Sam should have listened to Nathan. Should have drawn the line when Rafe insisted on coming to the prison with them. Yet he had brushed Nathan's protests away and given Rafe the occasion to fuck everything up and put him into that shit.

Avery's treasure belongs to both Nathan and him, no one else. They needed the money, but simply allowing someone to get involved into _their_ quest so deeply shoud have ringed quite a few bells in Sam's head. He's actually looking forward to hear Nathan chew him on that one when he gets out. Not that he'd admit it.

Trust prison to make him miss his little brother's big mouth. Sam snorts at the thought, which prompts Luis, one of his cellmates, to raise a suspicious eyebrow and ask him what's so funny.

It's lunch, and Sam stops picking at his dried rice to look at the man. Had it been another inmate, Sam would probably have lied or told him to piss off, but he actually considers answering Luis.

Neither his failed escape nor Gustavo's grunge have really helped boosting his popularity. Most of the inmates have been avoiding rubbing shoulders with him, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the guards or the gang. But Luis is the guy who's always got something to bargain for, and a way to get in the guards' good graces. Mostly, he doesn't give a shit about the drama between inmates, manages not to attract serious enemies no matter who he associates with, and seems deprived of any ill-intent.

"Thinking about my brother," Sam answers earnestly.

"Ah, that's good," Luis says around an absent smile, wiping his brow. Today's particulary hot. "Family's important."

He proceeds to tell Sam about his wife and two sons, who are growing up without him, and about how he's still waiting to be tried, not really explaining how he ended up here in the first place. Sam has a feeling he'll be at it for a long time, so he dives back into his food and tries to listen at least a little. Without much success. His mind drifts between Nathan and Rafe and Avery; Sam loses the flow of Spanish despite his best efforts.

Nathan better get him out before he becomes so desperate as to detail his life and griefs to the first guy he happens to strike a conversation with, Sam thinks.

The air feels cranked, thick with the scent of blood and sweat. Sam hears the fist flying against his cheek more than he feels it. Raw knuckles connect with flesh in a blunt sound that joins the noise around, all ragged breathing and roars and shouts coming from both fighters and their animated audience alike.

Gustavo didn't throw the first blow, but he asked for the fight all the same.

Sam lands a hit, takes another, tries for a swipe again. Their feet plummel the ground, another sound to rythmn the dance as they stomp in circle, leer at each other, then rush to hit, stumble, stand straight again, repeat.

" _Think baby brother is coming to the rescue?_ " Gustavo had asked. Had sneered and taunted since morning, particulary feisty today, but Sam had brushed it off at first.

" _How do you know he even got out alive?_ "

Graping hands all around; gruff voices cheering and barking insults, too numerous for Sam to be able to pick up the Spanish.

It feels like the crowd is caging them.

" _I saw him riddled with bullets._ "

Punch, groan, dodge and breath, the clamor all around, another blow; there's a red spot on the side of his shirt now.

The adrenaline numbs it all anyway. The pain in his face, chest, and abdomen too, where the threads are the only thing holding torn flesh together.

" _He was crying for big brother to come. I think he pissed himself._ "

Sam didn't let Gustavo say another word after that. He lunged at him, the urge to just shut him up dwarfing all sense of reason.

The guards' shouts don't quite cover the tumult as they storm through, so it takes rough hands grabbing him for Sam to register that they're here. They push against the crowd, waving their sticks, dragging Sam away from Gustavo's battered-yet-still-leering face, away from the sneering and laughing crowd.

They manhandle him to solitary unit. The door clangs loudly behind them, joining the guards' grumbling for some seconds as they push him down the hall, and Sam braces himself for the beating he knows is coming.

The blows rain, heavy when they land on his face, ribs, gut– head snapping back, body jerking, arms trashing uselessly against the vice-like grips holding him there, helpless. Sometime among the guards' barks and snarls, he hears his nose snap. He hacks and coughs wetly, chokes on blood. The scorching at his side awakes, joining the global pain that engulf his body to the point of consuming any coherent thought– enough now, someone make it stop, let him _breathe_ –

He doesn't realize they droped him to the ground until the assaults cease for several blessed seconds and a boot sets on his shoulder, forcing him to uncurl and roll on his back. He's panting harder than his battered ribs can take. Eyes clenched shut from the pain, almost oblivious to the guards' snarky remarks (he wishes he didn't know Spanish so well), he rolls to his palms and knees, trying and failing to stand.

"We got some calls," one of them says casually, catching Sam's attention. "Some guy that asked about you."

Nathan. Of course: all the Gustavos in the world couldn't make him doubt for a second. Nathan is alive, looking for him.

Sam pushes himself up, one hand against the concrete wall for support, the other on the gash at his side where blood is oozing lazily. He'd smile, but he's getting an uneasy feeling from the taunting tone and smirking face above him.

"You know us," the guy gestures broadly. "Always pleased to serve, right? You _should_ know, given how close you seemed to Vargas."

Sam swallows hard, the sour taste of blood lingering on the back of his tongue, familiar but unpleasant all the same. He doesn't like where this is going.

"So," the guard drags, "we informed him best we could, you know? Confirmed that the guy he was looking for got killed during a prison break. What a shame, righ– "

Sam's lunging at him before he can finish, a roar that doesn't quite sound like his voice ripping from his throat. He can land a punch (breaking the guard's nose in a satisfying crack sound) before he's grabbed and shoved away. The sticks droping on his back sends him to the ground, his attackers' blows and snarls growing in intensity with anger.

Freshly-Broken-Nose stomps back towards him, seething. He raises his stick high.

"You think you can just spite us?" he brings the stick down hard, and Sam grunts. "Thought you could kill Vargas and walk away unscathed?" The baton lifts and drops in rhythm with the words, " _Who_ do you _think_ you are?"

The guy's panting now, Sam can hear it over his own ragged breathing. The blows have stopped at long last, so he dares to crack an eye open, moving his arms from where they were shielding his head. They're all bending over him, scowls twisting their faces, knuckles white around their sticks; satisfied by their handiwork judging by how some of them take a few steps back, glowering still.

"None of your little friends is coming for you, scum."

He's trembling now, half curled on himself and half crawling, trying to breathe, trying to stand, trying to tell them wrong but it's so hard to speak–

"You are going to stay with us for a long time."

The sound of their steps feels distant as they take their leave, but he flinches when the door clangs forcefully close.

Sam lies on the floor, back against the wall, aching all over, shaking, teeth gritted against the pain and the sheer need to scream– his fingers go to his bleeding side, claw at the ground, tighten into fists, move to his side again–

He wants to tear off the remaining stitches, dive his fingers into the torn skin and rip it apart– wants to bleed out here and now, but he can't, right? Because Nathan has to be coming for him somehow. He'll keep calling, Sam's sure, keep digging and searching.

 _Come on, little brother._

He'll find out.

 _Don't give up on me._


	2. Despondency

**Chapter 2 –** Despondency

Has it been a month? Several? Sam doesn't ponder too much on it. Just when he was beginning to fear that the guards had forgotten him, they chose to let him out of solitary. He walks out slowly, takes a moment to close his eyes and focus on how good the sun feels on his face. He'd never realized how much he took that for granted. There's a lot of things he took for granted, he thinks as he roves down the yard.

 _Resucitado_ , the others call out when they see him. It _has_ been a while then. Good to know it wasn't just his head playing tricks.

Some more days go by. Nathan isn't there yet. Then again, he probably can't show himself at a prison he escaped from just like that. Even that aside, a normal bribe surely won't be enough, admitting that the guards would accept any money at all. They do hold quite the grudge. Nathan needs time to gather the money. Maybe he had to go and get Victor's help, and the man needed some convincing. Sullivan would go to great lengths for Nathan, but the same can't exactly be said for Sam. Maybe it was foolish of him to expect a rescue too soon after the prison break.

Still. Nathan's birthday is nearing, each day till the date adding its weight of alarm to the apprehension that's been sending Sam's stomach to his feet.

When the day comes, all feeling of anxiety is ripped from his guts. Everything's so wrong it's numbing. So Sam lets the hours wear away as usual, nothing special, not one opportunity for today to stand out even a little. When night comes and his cellmates are either sleeping or turned back to him at the very least, he lets his knees drop in the dust, his elbows settle on his bunk, his hands clasp together, and gives a prayer. That– _that_ felt right.

A few weeks later, he catches another inmate named Jaime in the same position. Sam's not _surprised_ , not really. It's just, lost in the perpetual hostile atmosphere, all threatening gestures and voices, it's easy to forget they're all on the same boat. That night, Sam goes to sleep wondering whether the others would be surprised if they saw him pray.

Morning comes with its load of hazard. Sam almost finds himself in the middle of a fight again, something stupid that started with a heated argument with a guy named Juan or Juanes. They end up surrounded by an eager crowd before they know it. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam catches Luis watch the scene unfold, an eyebrow raised.

Then, he misses a minute. Not, that's not it. He still knows where he is, can still hear the others' voices as they exhort the fight to start. But he remembers circling in the dark, memory both vivid and distant, like he's there but it's not really him. Talking to himself, scratching at the floor, banging the walls, picking at his skin, trying to feel, trying to sense, trying to chase the nothingness away– Yeah. No more solitary for him.

A shrug, chin pointed towards the guard turned back to them ten meters further, and the fight's avoided. The crowd dissipates as Juan-or-whatever-he's-called stomps away, bumping into Sam while he's at it.

Sam heads to the edge of of the yard where he knows he'll find Julian and Carlos, who he gets along rather well with. He sits on the dirt with them, and another whose name he doesn't know yet. Andrés joins them for a lack of something better to do. Cigarette smoke fills the air between them, and they talk about awaited trials, women, and freedom. Sam surprises himself by wandering off the usual topics and bringing up Avery.

The men whistle admiringly when he talks about the millions in gemstones on the Mongolian ship that Avery sacked. They all laugh as they try and fail to pronounce the ship's name correctly. _Ganj-i-Sawai_ , Sam repeats like _he_ has an idea of how it's pronounced. He finally complies and gives them the anglicized version, the _Gunsway_ , before narrating the battle that opposed its crew to Avery's. He tells them about the bounty England put on Avery's head after that (first worldwide manhunt, he emphasizes). He concludes on how Avery disappeared with his treasure, and how it inspired several pirates of the time. The men around Sam listen carefully at that point, eyes growing wide like children's would.

Reminds him of Nathan's beaming face when he'd tell him the same stories as kids. They'd get caught whispering exitedly well after curfew, and the way his ear ached after his Sister Catherine grabbed it to drag him back to his bed was _so_ worth the stars in Nathan's eyes.

Sam puts an abrupt end to the conversation. He gets up and waves the others' confused inquiries away. Only when he's put some distance between them and his irrational anger has somewhat washed off, does he realize that he has, of course, nothing else to do. He watches the dull day go by, and the days that follow.

He tries not to let the monotony get him.

Wake up, exercise, stale food, turn in circles, sometimes a fight; the distraction is always a welcome one, and Sam finds himself among the bellowing audience on more times than he'd like to admit. What's self-esteem in a place like this anyway? Yet Sam avoids solitary like the plague, so he refrains from acting out too much himself. Tries to keep Gustavo and his gang at bay. It's not always as hard as Sam thought it would be. There are days where the would-be nemeses can make eye contact without it being baleful, just tiredly holding gazes as they wait to see if the other will make some hostile move, each man returning to their own business when it doesn't happen. On moments like this, when Gustavo's frame lacks the tough-guy demeanour; when there's no rage or sneer in his eyes to hide the emptiness, Sam wonders. Just how long Gustavo's been there?

A card game, some cigarettes at stake, a crooked smile here, a chuckle there, just so he doesn't forget how. Sam wants to be able to tell a joke when he sees Nathan again, wants to laugh with his brother, smile at a cute girl, have a mindless conversation with someone.

This plase won't steal that from him, too.

Dario's a sore loser. He throws his remaining cigarettes at Sam in disgust, muttering something about cheating. Had it been an older, more hostile inmate, the accusation would probably escalate into an altercation. But Dario's a few years younger than Nathan, landed here 'cause he accepted being a mule for a chance to reach the States and got caught. He's not looking for a fight, he wants to convince everyone that he's not scared to. Trying so hard to look like one of the dangerous guys it's almost cute.

So Sam shrugs at the accusation, confident that the situation won't degenerate much more, and promises at Dario that he wouldn't dare, he's _so_ scared. The others laugh around them, and Sam leaves it at that, even as Andrés pushes at his shoulder and urges him to give a suitable response to the obvious provocation (the guy is always there to cheer on a fight even as he would never risk his own ass).

"Kid scares you or what?"

"But beating up my best cigarettes supplier would be such a loss."

Mean snicker erupts again (it's not really funny, it's just that the occasions for a laugh are so rare everyone clings to them like a lifeline), and Dario elbows his way out of the small crowd of inmates, fuming but still the happy owner of all his teeth. The boy should really learn to appreciate the small victories.

That was the event of the day.

Another crappy meal. Ignore the guards and inmates' provocations. Walk in circle some more. Sun begins to set: time to send the cattle back to their cells.

Carlos is already snoring loudly, lucky bastard, but Luis and Jaime are shoving and throwing insults at each other, and it takes a guard knocking his baton against the bars for Sam's cellmates to shut up.

They removed the stitches, but the flesh is still tender at Sam's abdomen. Taunting. Is it him or is the wound just a little hot to the touch? Is it even possible at this stage of recovery? If he contracted an infection, he wouldn't be guilty of doubting his little brother.

Sam presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing himself to keep his thoughts under control. Thinking about when and how Nathan will get him out of here used to be soothing. Lately it's been coming with a dull feeling of anxiety Sam doesn't want to address. So he thinks about Sir Francis Drake and Henry Avery, about all the theories their mother had and what historical clues led to them. They have so much to _do_ yet. So much to check and maybe prove. Their mother left many trails after her. Avery's treasure is just the beginning.

He's waisted enough time here already.

"If I ever get out of here, I would..."

The game is common among the inmates. A few meaningless words exchanged over a card game or just before drifting to a dreamless sleep, a distant smile occasionally forming on someone's face. Sam would speak about Nathan if simply thinking about him hadn't become so painful. So when asked, Sam always brings up Avery's treasure, just for the sake of telling the story. The tale always meets great success. So he settles on his bunk, rests his head on his hands, closes his eyes and indulges his cellmates.

He misses having a conversation in English, though. Most of the other inmates probably know the language, but they have no reason to speak anything else than their mother tongue.

He wonders if his brother and Rafe found the treasure. They did get away with the cross. He likes to think that Nathan wouldn't have pursued the quest after the prison break. Sam knows damn well he wouldn't want the treasure without Nathan beside him.

He's awake long after he's finished telling Avery's story. He'd kill for a book. And his mother's cross. Just for the annual prayer he gives on his brother's birthday, he tells himself. Nothing more. He's got neither, so he goes back to counting the cracks of the ceiling. Ponders on Francis Drake, but Avery is quick to claim his mind again.

It took the guy one year to gather one of the world's biggest treasure and disappear with it, no trace left. The King of Pirates. He needed only one year to achieve greatness. Wasn't that what Sam had promised after him and Nathan escaped from that old lady's manor? Great things for the both of them. Yet here he is, spending his years away.

Seems like time itself is mocking him, as dangerous an enemy as the guards or the inmates.

 _Or your own mind, dumbass._

He knows better than to be thinking like that. He palms his own shoulder, the edge of his bunk, his folded knee, trying to remember the feeling of Nathan's shoulder under his hand– stops himself when he realizes what he's doing. Sleep is slow to come after that.

He dreams of a starry night, of scalding the roofs with Nathan, of laughing and panting hard after they'd succeeded in escaping God-knows-what. He wakes up to the sound of metal sticks against metal bars and his roommates' grunts; cracked concrete celling above his eyes. He doesn't even sigh as he drags himself out of his bunk to face yet another day.

Does Sullivan still stick with Nathan these days? Is he there for Nathan while Sam isn't? The thought is enough for a lump to form in Sam's throat. Still, he never wished for his brother to be lonely. Sam sure hopes that wathever trust his brother has put in the old man was justified. Simply imagining losing Nathan pulls a string in his heart; Sam isn't sure he could have faced that. Much less alone.

 _Yet, what have you been doing all this time here?_

Sam has spent his first years in here vehemently pushing away any thoughts that Nathan might have had to actually mourn him. But six years have gone now, sipping through his fingers in the form of numbing routine. Some worries are getting kinda hard to ignore.

The guards come and go. Most of those who knew Vargas are gone now. Maybe that's what Nathan was waiting for; maybe he'll be able to get him out now, without Vargas' friends standing in the way. Or maybe Nathan will hear word of him still being alive.

Carlos is transferred to another cell. Dario receives quite the beating after a quarrel with a guy from Gustavo's gang. Sam gets a few birds tattooed on his neck, and forgets to feel stupid or cheesy.

Back to the routine.

There's not much to do here but think and wonder, so wonder he does a lot. Would finding Avery's treasure make these lost years worth it? It's been sticking his brain for a while now. It's reassuring to think that something out there could make his stay in here just a little bit okay.

Newcomers are regulary tossed here. Kids caught up in gang rivalries or family men wanting to cross the border mixing up with hardened murderers, most of them without trial, just some rough shoves from guards with closed faces. Like it's a formality. Maybe it is. Andrés said once in a growl that the prison was built for half the number they are now. Sam doesn't know where he takes that from, but it sure isn't hard to believe.

Humans are very little, insignificant things, Sam thinks each time he sees a new face. A new man in cage, one more life lived behind bars, like it's nothing. He feels so small surrounded by those high walls. Powerless as he watches his life spend itself away before him, all control removed long ago. He doesn't want to be insignificant. He doesn't want his years here to be insignificant, just another forgotten tragedy. If, by some miracle, Sam does get out of this hell; if him and Nathan succeed in finding the treasure- then the years spent here wouldn't be just thrown into void. They'd have a sense. All that he's endured here, it wouldn't be for naught.

It's just as Francis Drake said. Continuing the matter until it be thoroughly finished.

That would be his closure.

Gustavo thinks he's scary. The very thought makes Sam smile.

(He still can. Good.)

You'd think a guy like him would know about true fear. Well, what he _does_ know is how to throw a punch, Sam will grant him that, he's a certified bully, efficiently infuriating, always seem to get the best of Sam at the end– but that's about it. Taking a few hits, landing some; Sam knows the dance by heart. That's one thing this limbo won't let him forget. Maybe the blows will shake the hollowness slowy growing inside. The timeless waiting and longing, the days piling up like weights at his chains, they're numbing him. Maybe a good shake will jolt his soul.

Gustavo he can fight back. There is not one inmate or guard here that he truly fears. But the thought that Nathan might actually believe he's dead? That nobody might have his little brother's back right now?

That he's here to stay? Here to rot?

Sam's next punch is harder than the others. He could teach Gustavo a few things about fear. The kind that settles deep inside, unshakable; the kind that gnaws at any other thought, becoming a constant background noise that you'd take any distraction from– if only to pretend, just for one second, that you're able to breathe without having to force against the dread clutching your lungs.

The familiar feeling of hands dragging him back pulls Sam out of his trance, and he's getting aware of the guards shouting in his ears. He sees them grabbing Gustavo too, before they're both shoved away from the circle of inmates.

Solitary again, then.

Another thing he fears.


	3. Perdition

**Chapter 3 –** Perdition

Two of the prison's gangs have been huddling and looking at the other sideways recently. Conversations around meals or in one yard's corner have been growing thin. Everyone caught the change of mood and let the tension harden his face. Another riot on the verge of bursting? Luis died during the last one a couple years back. Something caused by a debt unpaid or some form of perceived disrespect between two members of opposed gangs. It always starts over something trivial– boredom breeds violence, and people constantly treated like animals act like such. They always die over something trivial.

Prison's granted a celebrity, and just like that, rivaleries are put aside as the hierarchy's altered. Sam has heard of Hector Alcázar during his years here. Some of the most bloody legends he knows must be exagerated, but one look at the Butcher is enough to understand that his reputation's justified. The guy's got a dark fire in his eyes that never seem to subdue, and the deceiving calmness of a predator a second away from jumping on its prey.

Alcázar rules the roost for a few weeks, easily obtaining numerous privileges from the guards. The way he mingles with the others doesn't fool anyone, and none of the prison gangs dares to contest the authority.

One day, Sam gets to talk to him. Not exactly by choice; the plan was to stay as far from Alcázar as possible. The guy goes from civil to murderous in a second. Unpredictable men are dangerous enough as it is. When they have power and influence on top of that, it's best to stay out of their way. Which Sam gladly did until now.

Ignoring the Butcher would be the dumbest thing to do though, so when an inmate comes to Sam saying that Alcázar wants him to come to his cell, Sam leaves the yard and does as he's told.

Naturally, Alcázar bribed himself a private cell, complete with a table and chairs. There are a few others guys talking and lurking around when Sam gets there, who he recognize as the ones who arrived at the same time as Alcázar. Probably working for him. Which means they probably won't be there long either. They're waved off, and Sam's left alone with his host.

There is the Butcher, slumped in a decrepit chair, cigarette in mouth and bottle of booze in hand (another favor from the guards). Sam ignores the probing gaze and goes to sit at the table, feigning nonchalance with a smile, like he alwas told Nathan to do when they got themselves in trouble back in the days. _Don't let 'em see you're afraid, Nathan_.

"What can I do for you?"

Alcázar smirks and hands the bottle over to Sam, gesturing him to take a swig. It's cheap and sour, but it tastes like heaven. It takes every bit of willpower for Sam not to gulp down the whole bottle. Surprisingly, Alcázar answers in English.

"Heard you're good at telling stories, American."

That's the last thing he expected. The Butcher of Panama, interested by Sam's tale about Avery? Well, it's better than he'd thought. Sam's English is slow and rusty, like an atrophied muscle. He doesn't ponder on how much it bothers him. Sam pretends he's comfortable and goes to answer Alcázar's questions. He can practically see the glint in his eyes at the mention of the four hundred millions.

"And this long lost treasure," Alcázar clarifies, clearly interested, "you say you could find it, should you get out."

"Without a doubt." There's not a mystery on this Earth that Nathan and him couldn't solve, Sam thinks even as Alcázar laughs, blaring. Maybe that's how hyenas laugh. Sam's eyes narrow automatically, but he doesn't blame Alcázar for doubting the grand ideas of a man burried alive.

"That's good," Alcázar unexpectedely declares between two guffaws. "Ambition's good."

Sam snorts. Ambition didn't get him further than here. A place too small for his dreams. He should stop clinging to them, and perhaps he wouldn't feel so cramped, but what else could he hold on to then?

"Not worth much here, is it?"

Alcázar goes silent the same way he burst out laughing: abrupt and unanticipated. He leans towards Sam, who struggles not to fidget under the scrutinizing gaze, suddenly worried he said the wrong thing. Then, Alcázar leans back again and takes another swig of booze.

"Take it from me, American," he says, voice deep and words slow, "very few wannabes become great men, but every great man was a wannabe once."

He smiles then, apparently satisfied at his self-perceived wisdom, and waves Sam off.

Alcázar's bailed out the day after. Something big coming up in Argentina, according to rumors. There's a good part of his business the Butcher can't run from here. His words resonate in Sam's head as the dynamics between gangs, inmates and guards go back to usual. Seems like whatever reason had the gangs' quarrel going before Alcázar arrived was forgotten, at least for now.

Carlos and Andrés wave Sam over for a card game. Imminent danger's avoided, they can share a casual conversation again. They mastered the art to switch from idle chat and games to frigid observers preparing for survival depending on situation's needs. Sam smiles easily and joins the two men.

Maybe they're using each other as coping mechanisms. Or maybe it's normal human interaction. Who the hell would know?

Sam has taken a habit to skip breakfast. He doesn't peak at the sunrise through the barred window anymore either. It's more or less impossible to sleep in with the tumult of the prison awakening, so he just lies and daydreams amid the metallic sounds and the loud voices. Time is a strange thing indeed. Each day seems to drag itself in crushing emptiness, but then Sam counts out the years– ten already? It seems surreal. He searches in his head, fails to find any significant event marking off the time as it went by.

He's still able to tell a joke, he reminds himself. He can still smile, and most of the times, it's spontaneous enough that it counts. Many here have lost their sense of humor somewhere in the dark corridors or in a cell corner. Sam holds that one victory close, so that he can assert that the cage didn't swallow him hole, didn't beat him nor change who he is. He's gained the right to pretend, he decides, even if it's not totally true, even if _who he was_ and _who he is_ have become remote concepts that he can't quite grasp anymore. They're just a bunch of uniforms dragging themselves along the schedule in there. He'd like to hear Nathan say his name, just once. So that he knows he's still a whole person.

Carlos shakes his shoulder roughly, telling him to get up, cells are open. Sam stands up slowly, heads down the corridor, but his thoughts create a particulary thick mist this morning. It's one of this days.

He'd never imagined, as a kid, that his hunts could lead him there. Somehow, admitting that this is how Avery's story will end– _has_ ended– for him is still 'll never know if all their theories about Francis Drake were true, either. Was Nathan able to check them all? Is he in the middle of an expedition right now?

Alcázar called him a wannabe. He wasn't far off the mark, be it for Sam or his brother. They used to dream about sharing greatness together. No doubt Nathan has it all for him right now. Sam never liked it that his brother never really needed him to go far, but he comforted himself by thinking that Nathan needed him in different ways. Now? It's been long since Sam went from knowing his brother was coming, to hoping he'd moved on– it'd be wrong for the both of them to be stuck in time.

But he wonders if Nathan still thinks about him. He hopes moving on didn't involve forgetting him. Sam doesn't need much. If he can believe that he still exists in Nathan's head, then he can persuade himself that he didn't fade away, not completely. Even if it's not totally true, he's gained the right to pretend, hasn't he?

He doesn't know what triggered the fight anymore. Maybe it should matter. None of their clashes ever needed to end up like this.

Fingers tight around Gustavo's throat, world silent except for the blood pumping in his temples and his ragged breathing– hands are gripping at his arms, he thinks. He can't really see beyond Gustavo's wild, bulging eyes. He keeps squeezing well after those eyes roll back in their skull and Gustavo's arms fall limp at his sides.

More hands then, prying Sam's fingers open, gripping his arms and waist. He's pushed away. It's hard to tell. He hears the body hitting the ground. He marvels distantly- is this it? Has he finally snapped?

Metal sticks on his skin don't quite dissipate the blur. He's left alone in the dark.

The others look at him differently when he gets out.

Andrés and Carlos are playing cards in the dirt with some others. They give Sam some cards when he approaches, but they don't quite meet his eyes. Tense silence lets place to iddle chat, forced at first, but there nonetheless, as if nothing had happened. For once, when Dario loses, he doesn't bitch about it.

They think he's one of those guys now, Sam knows. Those you don't mess up with 'cause they can't believe they have something to lose anymore. Those who've caved in and gone under.

They're wrong.

Sam smiles just to prove it, tells a joke so bad everyone's lips raise at the corners. Feeble smiles under tired eyes. He'll probably die like this, too. Pushing a guy too far. And when it's done, no big fuss made over it.

Nathan is 34 years old today.

Sam's sitting in a corner of his cell, palms pressed together, fingers brushing his nose. He stays there a moment more after he's done; opens his eyes and puts his head against the wall. Here's that voice again, typically insistant around that time of the year; the one that keeps suggesting how maybe it's an unnecessary effort now, with how long it's been.

Sam keeps that part of him burried deep inside, because how stupid is that? Nathan's still alive, he knows. Even if he refrains from thinking about it too much. Sam doesn't give a shit how dangerous their lives are– well, it's only been Nathan's life for a long time now. There's something unbearable and twisted and just plain wrong with the idea that his baby brother died out there, under the sky of some desert or jungle or in the middle of the ocean, while he is doomed to rot between concrete walls until well after he's turned gray.

He wills away the image of Nathan bleeding out from some gunshot wound that refused to claim Sam all those years ago, simply content to deprive him of his brother's touch. He settles as confortably as he can on his bunk, slipping one hand under his head as the other goes to the round scars under his shirt, closing his eyes. Strangely, the once torn skin doesn't feel rough enough to the touch.

Maybe, Sam ponders, just maybe, he should have ripped away those stitches when he was given the chance.

So much for greatness.

* * *

 ** _The end! I figured over all the made up stories Sam could have come up with at the beginning of UC4, he wouldn't have picked one with Alcazar unless the guy marked him one way or another._**

 ** _Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!_**


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